


Inhibition

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Emotionally Repressed, Jealousy, M/M, Napoleon is dramatic sometimes, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 05:57:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12006495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: For once it’s Illya that goes on a honeypot mission and Napoleon is not dealing with it the way he thought he would.





	Inhibition

**Author's Note:**

> Based on bryonyashley's lovely tumblr prompt.

Napoleon wants Illya, has wanted him from the start, but he’s always been successful at hiding his ugly attraction for him, and is determined to ignore his feelings for as long as it takes. But when Illya has to woo a mark for a particular mission, all of Napoleon’s plans go up in smoke. Illya, knowing seduction is not his forte, hadn’t been pleased with his assignment at first. But with some coaxing from Gaby and a very reluctant Napoleon, he eventually agrees, and to Napoleon’s abject surprise and horror, he hits it off straight away with their mark, a beautiful blonde woman, who is instantly smitten with his partner.

Annoyed, Napoleon laughs off his jealousy, tells himself he’s being stupid and irrational, but the mission brings out a romantic side of Illya Napoleon’s never seen before. And when he catches them kissing at a gala the woman’s father is hosting, he almost loses his wits. He is supposed to leave the place after successfully cracking a safe, stealing the information UNCLE had needed and not spy on his partner who’s doing a pretty good job at distracting their host. But against his better judgement, he had decided to stay. And for his efforts, he sees that intimate moment between them.

Napoleon feels ill at the way Peril holds her in his arms, the way he tilts her chin, his large hand cupping her face, their kiss sensual and lingering. And _damn_ , the longer Napoleon looks, the stronger his urge is to stab the nearest person he could find.

 _'Welcome to the wonderful world of undeniable jealousy, Solo.’_ he hears the voice in his head mocking him, and not wanting to cause a commotion, he leaves the scene in a haste, thinking he’ll get over it once it isn’t brandished right in front of his face. But when he reaches his hotel room, the feeling doesn’t go away, it doesn’t dissipate. In fact, it keeps growing worse by the day and he could do nothing but continue to hide his jealousy (the mission lasting longer than he’d liked it to be), until Illya shows up at his place one evening after Napoleon had failed to appear at Waverly’s dinner party, wanting to celebrate the end of another successful assignment.

“Gaby said you were not feeling well. Somehow, I did not believe her.”

“You should always trust a lady, Peril. Didn’t your mother teach you that?”

“My mother also taught me how to spot a lie.”

Napoleon just shrugs and when it becomes clear Illya won’t leave, he eventually lets him in his apartment. Once inside, he offers Illya a drink which the Russian flatly refuses. 

“I came back from party. Had enough drinks.”

“Well, I suppose there’s plenty more for me then.”

“You should not drink so much if you are unwell.”

Napoleon groans as he pours himself a drink. “God, stop mothering me, will you?”

And Illya just glares. 

They are now seated across from each other in Napoleon’s living room, and Illya waits patiently for his partner’s explanation. There is only one reason for his absence at Waverly’s but Napoleon is not going to let Illya know why. Keeping silent, he merely swirls the drink in his glass before gulping it at one go. When he reaches for his tumbler to refill it for the second time, Illya catches his wrist, surprising Napoleon at his boldness.

“Careful, Peril. You do not want to start something you’ve no intention of finishing,” he warns. But Illya isn’t intimidated. 

“You are being ambiguous. Tell me what is on your mind. Tell me why you have been avoiding me for days. You cannot even look at me properly. In fact, you do not even look at me anymore. Why?”

Fuck, is Illya a mind reader? Or had he been too obvious? And what was Illya implying when he had said Napoleon hasn’t looked at him properly? Does Illya know? 

Cursing loudly, he yanks his hand away from Illya’s grip and stands on his feet. The aching feeling in his chest, that frustrating feeling he gets whenever they are too close, is currently at the tipping point. And he’s so tempted to jump over the edge and see what it feels like to hit rock bottom. 

“Have I done something, Cowboy? Something to offend you?”

Illya, standing now as well, gives him a questioning look. Entranced, Napoleon can’t seem to look away from his eyes, those bleeding blue eyes, strangely soft and questioning, and they finally break Napoleon’s defences.

“ _God damnit, Peril,_ I have feelings for you!” he snaps and then sighs, defeated at Illya’s shocked look upon hearing his admission. Illya takes a step back from his partner and the act hurts Napoleon, but now that he’s admitted his secret, he feels Illya should know everything that’s been jammed inside of him for months. 

“And surprise, surprise, my feelings for you is not that friendly platonic sort of feeling. It’s more romantic than I’d like it to be and then seeing you kissing our mark that day, fuck! It dawns on me that I’ll never get to do it. To kiss you, that is, because you would probably break my arm, or worse, kill me before I could ever lay my hands on you the way she’d touched you.”

“You spied on me?” Illya asks, the only thing he could say after everything Napoleon had said sink in, and Napoleon, not knowing what else to do, just rubs his face with both his hands, murmurs, “I couldn’t help myself.”

It was not fun having to spill your guts like that but Napoleon is tired, so tired of lying and pretending and if Illya wants to hit him now or demands for that transfer from Waverly tomorrow, Napoleon will gladly accept it. Because he just couldn’t go on anymore. And he just wants Illya to leave the apartment so he could hide in his room, to lie down and sleep, perhaps never to wake up again. Yes, that’s a good enough solution to compensate for his burning embarrassment. 

After a while, he looks up and locks eyes with Illya once again.

“So, now that you have my answer, are you satisfied?”

Despite everything, he plasters on a stoic look and waits for Illya’s response.

“Peril? Are you so shocked that you can’t even muster a damn word?”

If Illya had widen the gap between them not a few seconds ago, Napoleon realises he has moved again, but now he’s coming towards him, stops when only inches separates them. Now, they are standing very close together, too close until he could feel the heat radiating off of his partner’s body and the taut tension between them. He is breathing hard, and so is Illya, and the excruciating silence goes on with neither men wanting to back down, until Napoleon can stand it no longer. 

Finally overcome with everything that he’s feeling, he pulls Illya down by the front of his black turtleneck shirt that he always wears, that _stupid, stupid shirt_ that’s both sexy and infuriating, and kisses him.

For a moment, Napoleon fears the worst, fears he’d made a monumental mistake when Illya remains passive, unresponding, lips a thin hard unyielding line against his. But, as though suddenly shocked, he surges forward against Napoleon’s body and wraps him in his arms. Holding Napoleon in place, he then kisses him fiercely, and Napoleon’s certain their kiss is nothing like how Illya had kissed their mark. That kiss between him and that girl had been tender and soft, but this, _God_ , this kiss between them is insistent and demanding. The press of Illya’s lips on his, his arms around Napoleon’s waist, forcing him to tilt his head up towards the taller man; it is breathtaking.

Wild. 

Uncontrolled. 

And Napoleon, overwhelmed at the feeling of Illya against him and all his pent up desire for the man, welcomes it with everything that he’s got, presses closer and breathes him in like a drowning man desperately needing air.

When Illya finally releases him, he clutches at Illya’s shoulders hard, holding on to him, afraid that if he lets go, he might just fall to the floor, dizzy as to what had just happened between them.

“Fuck, Illya,” he curses for the umpteenth time that night. “That was…”

“You should have said something earlier. You should have told me this before,” Illya mutters, cutting him off. His hands slide down his body and Napoleon gasps into Illya’s mouth when he palms and kneads his buttocks.

“Fuck, how was I supposed to know? You look at Gaby like she’s the world. And then that little show of you and that girl weeks earlier, what was I supposed to think?”

“You are supposed to think nothing,” Illya grunts as he lurches forward and attacks Napoleon’s mouth again, licks his lips, making the American whimper.

Illya tastes sweet like champagne and wine, probably what he had at Waverly’s party, and Napoleon just wants to immerse himself in him.

“Illya, I’m serious about what I’d said. I can’t if you think this is all just a game.”

Somewhere, deep in the recesses of his mind, Napoleon suddenly worries if Illya is just searching for gratification, and knows that this can only end in pain for them, for _him_ especially, but when Illya tells him he is foolish for even thinking of it, tells him he’s been wanting him for ages too, Napoleon’s heart races. They kiss again and stumble back onto his sofa, with Illya sprawled on top of him, hands never leaving each other. They start to touch and rut, the act coupled with their combined weight causing the furniture underneath them to creak.

“It’s gonna break,” Napoleon gasps against Illya’s parted lips.

“If this breaks, we will get Waverly to buy you new one, replace with something bigger,” the Russian growls and Napoleon just nods, writhes, desperate for more contact, moans wantonly as Illya slots himself between the spread of his thighs and brings their hands together to touch him _there_. And when Illya starts to move their hands in a rythmic rhythm, Napoleon can’t think about anything else; not of the furniture in his room, not Waverly and his god damn missions, because everything else is secondary as his senses narrow down to Illya’s taste, his smell, his touch. Napoleon doesn’t care.

Because he finally has what he’s been wanting.

Illya.

**Author's Note:**

> It’s a bit troublesome to sift through tumblr for stories sometimes so I guess posting on ao3 is the best choice. Hope you like this little story :) comments and kudos are always appreciated! Xx


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